Having fun line dancing at the Wildhorse Saloon, a Nashville landmark, are Ashley Anthony (left), Career Coach Colleen Fitzpatrick and Connie Llanos.His thumbs hooked in the belt loops of his jeans, the man in cowboy attire high-kicked and pivoted with a grace that comes only from experience. His tipped black hat, matching boots and shirt fit the Wildhorse Saloon's decor and clientele. But still, he managed an air of superiority. I was enthralled.
I've never traveled to anywhere even close to the nation’s Heartland before. My closest brush with the stomps and gyrations of line dancing came in elementary school, years ago. My cowgirl-wannabe of a school librarian would give me short lessons in the hallway. No, this man was far removed from any previous experience or understanding I had in the way of country anything.
He was the real thing.
Twanging accents shouting friendly "Hey ya'alls!" and the never-ending barrage of country crooning formed an unintelligible din. The sounds curled up through the saloon's atrium, filling the three floors then bouncing back to the dance floor, where The Cowboy was fully engaged in serious dancing.
Giggling teenagers tried their feet at a line nearby but no one could approach the calm confidence of The Cowboy's obvious expertise. Side step after side step, swivel, stomp and swivel again, he never missed a beat. But he also never smiled. I thought that was curious.
We joined him and many others on a packed dance floor to misstep and laugh our way through a simple routine. After repeating the same stomps and pivots what seemed like a hundred times, our gaggle of line-dancing hopefuls swarmed back to our tables. Laughing uproariously and red-faced (line dancing is more strenuous than it looks), I noticed that The Cowboy had taken his leave of the lines and was nowhere to be seen. Perfection alone must be far less entertaining than making goofs with friends. The Cowboy showcased his skills, inspiring our laugh-worthy attempts, then high-tailed it. Our night, however, was only getting started.
-- Tara-Lynne S. Pixley, Spring Scholar, The Greenville (S.C.) News and Florida A&M University
I've never traveled to anywhere even close to the nation’s Heartland before. My closest brush with the stomps and gyrations of line dancing came in elementary school, years ago. My cowgirl-wannabe of a school librarian would give me short lessons in the hallway. No, this man was far removed from any previous experience or understanding I had in the way of country anything.
He was the real thing.
Twanging accents shouting friendly "Hey ya'alls!" and the never-ending barrage of country crooning formed an unintelligible din. The sounds curled up through the saloon's atrium, filling the three floors then bouncing back to the dance floor, where The Cowboy was fully engaged in serious dancing.
Giggling teenagers tried their feet at a line nearby but no one could approach the calm confidence of The Cowboy's obvious expertise. Side step after side step, swivel, stomp and swivel again, he never missed a beat. But he also never smiled. I thought that was curious.
We joined him and many others on a packed dance floor to misstep and laugh our way through a simple routine. After repeating the same stomps and pivots what seemed like a hundred times, our gaggle of line-dancing hopefuls swarmed back to our tables. Laughing uproariously and red-faced (line dancing is more strenuous than it looks), I noticed that The Cowboy had taken his leave of the lines and was nowhere to be seen. Perfection alone must be far less entertaining than making goofs with friends. The Cowboy showcased his skills, inspiring our laugh-worthy attempts, then high-tailed it. Our night, however, was only getting started.
-- Tara-Lynne S. Pixley, Spring Scholar, The Greenville (S.C.) News and Florida A&M University
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